Two Winds
New York | With the Wind
It was a windy and sunny afternoon as I strolled through the doors. Dressed in satin pants, a Sandro top, riveted Mary Jane slingbacks, and my hair half up. I was in need of a coffee, and I arrived at my leisure. The Pit had silks lining the front wall and a coffee bar on every floor. The right guy had once mentioned them, as we sat in my living room, splitting a bottle of wine. I entered with the wind, and my paths crossed with a Great, who was gathering her troops for the day. We exchanged a hello, and as she said my name in acknowledgment, I smiled and bowed my head before being led to sit for coffee. I had requested to view a few scarves. The coffee appeared on a silver tray. Fresh and balanced. I browsed the cases of lighters, wallets, and spectacles. Trying on a pair to test how it felt, to see with their lens.
As soft steps fell upon soft grass, I chattered with a kind soldier and pulled a scarf that reminded me of my living room. I wondered how it would look if framed, before wrapping it around my shoulders to see how I looked in a house banner, before pulling another. As I tied a silk in my hair, I made a wish and sent a whisper to the wind in the grapevine. I had always chosen my silks rather carefully, and I walked out of gilded gates having set two clocks.
On the Map:
One wind blew West, planting a ship.
One wind blew East, planting a monument.
I headed home, knowing that when the bells sounded, it would be the sound of the Realm of Titans and Giants. I would pick up, facing True North.
~
As I settled in, I received a call from my sister,
“I’m going on vacation to Mom and Dad’s. I’m flying in. Should I pick you up?”
My answer was simple.
“Yes. I’ll make the time.”
~
While I had spent the season of Apollo facing Greats and Titans, as I sat at their tables upon invitation, they were all faced with a choice in the form of a young girl from the West.
Chosen for her sunny disposition and her degree with stars and siphons stamped in Boston. There she studied the maps of Kings, the histories of Queens, and the laws of both. Through Chance and Luck, she was sent across seas to study the translation of cultures meeting, the language of a land afar, and the lights and brushstrokes of the Renaissance. It was a school known for abundant character, but had never before been brought into the Gates of the Realm.
Upon entry, she was seated in a chair, the first of the Realm. Placed where the King’s guard and Queen’s guard merged along the path. The mind behind the maps of Kings and Queens, fluent in bringing language to life, the Realm itself raced to build seats at their tables and ships on their maps, shaped by what they had witnessed in the time she had granted them. The ear of an Ace was running free in the wind. The siphon of the King’s guard could only be seen as soft steps walked away, in a hairstyle fully up. The mark of a Queen’s guard was worn hidden on hands, protected by armor made of gold and stones.
In the comfort of her home, in the arms of the right guy, she whispered a vision. For her hands would reach into another archive, and her mind would once again map for a House. He whispered the Legacy to which that archive would belong. It was then spoken into prophecy by two Greats. One bearing a star of the highest academic degree turned to a young girl from the West,
“This is a very specific path that you speak of, you do realize that, right?”
“Well, yes. That is why I sent my message. I realized I needed to find the right person to speak with.”
“It will take some time… we must move strategically. We cannot be knocking on random doors.”
~
While many would knock on the Ace’s door, it was then that she knew she had found the right one; it was only a matter of time, determined by Saturn. The God who once smiled down at the map before sending his children to open the skies where True North and West met. The lighting in the sky above them would change for a couple of moments. Warm summer droplets falling through the park, creating halos. Warm hands and warm arms, helping each other over puddles and through mud, proving that they were both still alive and human. For the first time, reaching— not for freedom, but for a reason to stay. In the simplest of ways: armor off, banners down. When the lights were low and the quiet morning sun peeks through the windowpane. Stepping out of the wind or waking up for another day. It no longer mattered which way the winds blew, what they’d send, or where they came from—just the music through the speakers, and one single question.
What do you believe?
A Love Letter
Written with Honey
